


turns out i was a vampire myself

by sherrybaby



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Blood, Friendship, Gen, Gore, Implied Feelings, Suicide Attempt, careful ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrybaby/pseuds/sherrybaby
Summary: Stenbrough. Stan attempts suicide after the blood oath





	turns out i was a vampire myself

**Author's Note:**

> i've been making playlists for all of these stories i'm writing but i have no idea how to post them sooooooo yep

Bill Denbrough had a bad feeling, the kind you couldn’t shake. The group had defeated It and had seemingly gotten their childhood back, but not their innocence. The world had regained it’s color; what was once a dull and muted life after the loss of his younger brother Georgie, became vibrant again after the battle in the sewers, like a veil had lifted and shown them what they had been missing. But still, something was wrong.

He was cresting the top of the hill that would take him home, palm bleeding from their oath, exhausted and dirty and feeling bolder and wiser, when it hit him: Stan. Bill kept replaying the image of the boy pretending to slash his wrists before actually slashing his palm, completing the blood oath and the promise to come back if need be over and over again in his mind. Stan’s face had looked so serious, determined and concentrated. Bill had stepped forward, hands quickly reaching out to grab the glass shard from Stan, who was stark white, the blood leaving his face and filling his palm. Bill’s hands dropped quickly to his side and he sliced his palm open too, his blood mixing with Stan’s, binding them for life. A feeling of dread settled in his chest and he glanced at his palm.

 _‘I hate you,’_ Stan had said, with a half smirk, but there was something more to it, wasn’t there? An underlying tone that was dead serious, a look in his eyes that had affirmed his true intent.

Bill turned around, pedaling hard, cutting through side streets and alleys, arriving at Stan’s in no time. Stan’s bike was propped up in its place on the side of the house; Bill dropped his on the front lawn and flew up the steps. He rang the doorbell frantically. No answer. He turned the doorknob and the door opened under his touch. The dread rooted in his chest began spreading outwards, filling him entirely. A quick peek into the living room told him Stanley wasn’t there; his heart was racing and his mouth was dry as he started up the stairs, the doors at the top waiting for him, mocking him. The walls were blinding white, and Bill left a trail of blood and dirt, tracing a path to the Outside, to Before.

He paused at Stan’s bedroom door, the only on the left

_(i don’t want to go in i don’t want to i can’t but i have to oh god please not stan)_

took a deep breath, and opened the door. The room was clean and orderly, the bed properly made, his books dutifully lined up on the shelf. His record player closed and dusted, records placed neatly upright in alphabetical order by artist. The sun shone merrily through the window, illuminating the floor, the storm now gone.

Except now the storm was inside Bill, his mind swirling with fear. He glanced to his right: the door on the far left led to the guest bedroom, and the one between the two led to… the bathroom.

“Stan?” Bill’s voice was nothing more than a whisper, but he still hoped for an answer. He could hear the water trickling from the faucet.

_ plink _

_ plink _

_ plink _

He gripped the doorknob, and pressed his forehead, bracing for what he would find.

He first registered Stan’s clothes; shoes lined on the floor, pants folded up, shirt folded on top, socks laid out neatly off to the side. The shower curtain was open and Bill registered Stan, dripping wet yet still in his underwear, hovering over the bathtub ledge, staring at the red water. A criss-cross of shallow cuts lined his wrist, blood cascading down his slender fingers, dripping and swirling into the water. The teeth marks marring his face were dark and raw against his pale skin.

Bill saw, rather than felt, his hand stretch out through miles of haze, touching Stan’s shoulder, brushing against a smattering of small freckles. Stan turned around, stared at Bill with uncomprehending, wild eyes.

“What-”

and Bill had a towel pressed against Stan’s wrist, wrestling the razor out of his other hand, slicing three of his fingers open in the process. His blood ran down, mixing with Stan’s below.

Bill pulled Stan down onto the bathroom floor, propping him against the tub. Stan was shivering and Bill pulled off his flannel and wrapped it around Stan’s quaking shoulders. The boy let out a muffled sob and Bill pulled him into a fierce hug, tangling one hand in Stan’s curls, shushing him, keeping pressure on his wound with the other.They rocked back and forth as Stan sobbed into the crook of Bill’s neck

“Bill I can’t do this I can’t-”

“I-i-i-i-it’s over, S-s-s-stan,” the words caught in his throat, and his voice was quivering, choked by tears, his stutter worsened by his shock.

“I can’t do this if It comes back I can’t do this again-” Stan was babbling now and Bill was gripping him tighter and promising him things that couldn’t be promised and hating himself for it but hating even more just how broken his best friend was because of something he did.

“Are you o-okay?” Stan looked at Bill with a furrowed brow and tilted his bloody hand towards him. 

“No, I’m not fucking okay, Bill.”

“I’m s-sorry I wuh-wasn’t there for y-you, Stan.” He sniffled and it was Stan’s turn to wrap an arm around his friend’s shaking shoulders. Bill shifted to his knees and flipped the switch, draining the tub. They sat there, arms around each other, Stan’s head on Bill’s shoulder, watching the whirlpool at the end getting bigger, bleeding the tub dry; when it was through, only a faint pink tint remained, soiling an otherwise pristine bathroom.

“Guess I’ll need to bleach that out before my parents see it,” Stan said morosely. This sent Bill into a fit of laughter.

“Leave it to you to be worried about a tub after a fucking suicide attempt.” Stan echoed his laughter and it filled the air, a carefree mixture of youthfulness, banishing every worry and bad feeling for a few seconds.

Stan grinned, wiping the back of his hand on his mouth before catching Bill’s eyes staring at him

( _he will never stop worrying now)_

“Stan-”

“Bill, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to find me like this.”

“Why didn’t you s-say anything?”

“How could I?”

“Stan, we-”

“I know, ‘we’re all in this together. The seven of us beat It and we can again’. But look at my face. I was alone down there and I can’t do this again.” Bill lightly traced Stan’s cheek with a finger.

“Stanley, you will never be alone again. This,” Bill raised his palm, his cuts impossibly red, “is forever.  _We_  are forever.” He grasped Stan’s good hand and squeezed, bringing it up to his lips and kissing the back of it. Stan flushed pink and looked away. Bill grabbed his chin and tilted the boy’s head back towards him. “We love you.  _I_  love you. You don’t have to be afraid ever again because I will never leave your side ever again.”

More things he couldn’t promise, but Bill didn’t care; he meant them in that moment. He needed to know his Stan would be alright. Stan nodded slightly, embarrassed.

“Bill, you won’t tell…?”

“N-not a soul.” 

Bill helped Stan get cleaned up and into bed and Stan grabbed his arm when he turned to leave, asking him to stay.

It struck both of them later that night that Bill didn’t stutter once.


End file.
